


Doors with no keys

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Sevilla FC, a rare non-RM fic, and i know nothing, doing research is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivan can speak Croatian, German, Spanish, and even a touch of French. Daniel can only speak Portuguese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this lovely [gifset and prompt on footballkink2](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/10208.html?thread=5586144#t5586144)
> 
> Masochistically, I decided to begin the fic from the start of the season, which is very, very distant from the moment in this prompt.
> 
> This is coming also from someone who knows nothing of Sevilla (except for the occasions where Rakitić scores against my beloved Madrid) but how can I resist such tantalizing inspiration in its truest form (and yes, they are both oh so pretty...I needed nothing more). 
> 
> A lot of research was involved in the makings of this fic, and feedback would be lovely, even if it's just to correct my crappy Spanish/Portuguese (my faith in google translate is rather weak)

Ivan can speak Croatian, German, Spanish, and a touch of French, but not Portuguese—not even after hearing his fair share from Cicinho and Beto in his three years at Sevilla. But they're in Spain—where everyone speaks Spanish—and it was expected for Ivan to learn Spanish and not Portuguese, regardless of Spain and Portugal's shared border, or how many Portuguese footballers happen to play in their neighboring country. So in all fairness, it really shouldn't matter that Ivan can speak one language but not the other.

Portuguese had sounded like Spanish when Ivan couldn't speak Spanish, but now that he knows better, the differences couldn't be more apparent. Sure, some of the spellings are practically identical—with their mutual Latin roots, and all—but if Ivan were to compare Spanish to water, to rain, to the steady rise of summer tides, then Portuguese would be the earth, the wind, the friction between his palm and white, sandy beaches.

Portuguese is less flowing than Spanish, but not in an unpleasant way. It's organic and raw, scratchy against his throat, and just as tricky and inexplicable as the liquid sounds of Spanish.

Ivan tries, but nothing ever comes as naturally as he would've liked. And yes, languages can be unbelievably frustrating at times—when people speak too much, too quickly, and all the syllables link together that he can barely tell words apart, while his own responses stumble inelegantly against his stiff, foreign tongue. It's one of the worst feelings, being caught out and not knowing what to say, regardless of whether Ivan is facing a camera or a pair of insistent eyes. And he has to remind himself often not to feel weighed down, not to be surprised. After all, he is a fish out of water—a Croat in Spain—and there are just some things in this world he can never quite fully understand.

~~

Daniel can only speak Portuguese, despite his time spent at Reading and his loan spell at Limassol. And judging by his poor effort during Spanish lessons, Ivan doubts that Daniel had ever attempted to learn the languages of his former clubs.

Daniel gets by just fine, and it's in part due to the considerable degree of mutual intelligibility between Spanish and Portuguese, but Ivan knows that's not the only reason. The phenomenon has something to do with Daniel himself—the way he smiles with all his teeth, the openness of his gestures, the steady fixation of his eyes to any object of his attention—which combined _somehow_ manages to transcend even the most basic necessity for language, so that everyone understands Daniel just fine no matter how often he smiles in lieu of speaking, or how half-assed his attempts are becoming, as he tries to pass off Portuguese as Spanish.

Daniel's first season on loan with Sevilla is Ivan's first season as captain, and it just so happens that they start off shaky—losing the opening match to Atletico, before drawing to Levante at home. Their third match is against Malaga away, and a goal from Kevin Gameiro just before halftime manages to cancel out the opponent's opener.

It's 1-1 when the whistle blows, and Ivan supposes this would be an appropriate time to lift some spirits. But despite his own work ethic and determination, he knows he is not the most charismatic of leaders—his expressions too passive, his Spanish too clumsy—and he supposes this all has to change somehow, now that he is captain and needs to think about the team in more ways than one.

He remembers lining up for a free kick just outside the penalty box and seeing Daniel out of the corner of his eye, a few yards too far into the opponent's half to his liking. He reaches for the defender's elbow just as they descend the steps to the tunnel.

Don't forget to stay in position, Ivan tries to explain to Daniel. As much as they need the second goal, they can't afford to be stretched in the back. And with the midfield all pushing forward, Malaga will be especially dangerous on the counter.

Daniel smiles and nods and hums noncommittally, and Ivan feels a twinge of frustration, wondering whether his message is getting through at all.

This is important, he insists. Should I repeat myself? Do you understand what I'm trying to say?

" _Sim, meu capitão_ ," Daniel smiles before taking Ivan's hand and brushing a feather-light kiss to the ridge of his knuckles. Ivan watches him bemusedly; it reminded him of knights swearing their loyalty to kings.

And Ivan understands that much, or at least he thinks he does at the moment, as Daniel lets go and disappears among the crowd of yellow shirts. He sees his teammates coalescing by the lockers, their coach's voice rising above the noise of the stadium crowd, and decides that perhaps, now is not the best time for overthinking.

~~

Losing to Real Madrid isn't exactly shocking, but losing 7-3 certainly does little for moral. The plane ride back to Seville is quiet, to say the least. Ivan finds a seat alone in the back of their designated rows and rests his temple against the coolness of the windowpane. The images of his missed penalty play repeatedly behind his closed eyelids, even though he knows it's useless to torment himself after scoring two goals and doing all he can for his team. After conceding seven, one more goal wouldn't have made much of a difference, but it still adds insult to injury. The team, the fans, they had been counting on him, and he had—in a way—let them down.

" _Sorte_."

Ivan doesn't know that that means, but the coarse ending at the tip of the tongue—a _tche_ sound that reminded Ivan of earth and grape vines—suggested that this is not Spanish at all. And who else but Daniel would walk up to him and start speaking in Portuguese?

" _¿Suerte?" Daniel_ tries again after he is met with the captain's characteristic blank stare. Spanish this time, and Ivan understands—luck.

Ivan laughs and explains that conceding seven goals and losing by a margin of four is hardly an issue of luck, but Daniel shakes his head, taking the empty seat beside his captain.

" _Má sorte_ ," he reverts back to Portuguese, and Ivan can only guess at what he means. Bad luck? Unlucky?

Daniel nods and points to Ivan. " _Perdre_." To lose. " _Para estar no lado perdedor_." To be on the losing side.

I'm unlucky to be on the losing side? Ivan pieces it together, and Daniel smiles in affirmation.

" _Grande capitão_." Daniel says, and the Croat doesn't even attempt to hide his surprise, that Daniel of all people is trying to make him _feel_ better.

" _Gracias_ ," Ivan manages, feeling somewhat flustered and tongue-tied. He wants to say it's not about him, but about the team, and he wants to do everything he can to lead the team to victory, even if it's been an uphill battle ever since the beginning of the season. But he supposes he should be grateful—incredibly grateful—that someone like Daniel would consider him a good captain, even though the Portuguese has been here for only a few months, and Ivan certainly hasn't done much to warrant such faith.

There is so much Ivan wants to say, but he could find no words capable of bridging the language gap. And he doesn't realize he has been gaping until Daniel's easy smile falters a little, as the defender looks around sheepishly, perhaps feeling as though he has overstayed his welcome.

Daniel doesn't sit with Ivan for the rest of the flight, ducking back to his seat next to Diogo just as the flight attendants instruct everyone to fasten their seatbelts.

He wouldn't have minded if Daniel had decided to stay, but then again, it's a little to late to mention that now.

~~

A common language in a city of strangers can always bring people together, and Ivan supposes it's only natural for a Portuguese-speaking cluster to form within Sevilla, with new additions like Daniel and Diogo combining with more senior members Beto and Cicinho.

Ivan approaches them one morning during training, just as Daniel's sharp laughter reverberates across _La Cuidad Deportiva_. Daniel must've played a prank of some sort on Diogo, who looks rather miffed as he tackles the center back to the ground.

" _Buenos días, Iván_." Beto is the first to greet him, and the younger players halt in their ruckus upon acknowledging the Croat's presence. His Portuguese teammates are far from unfriendly, but it still doesn't stop Ivan from feeling out of place when it's just him and them.

Can I speak to Daniel in private? Ivan asks, and Daniel—who is lying on his back with Diogo pinning him from above—pinches together his brows.

Diogo rolls his eyes and says something in swift Portuguese. Daniel responds with a revealing _ah_ , before shoving away the wing back and rising to his feet.

Their teammates gives them the space Ivan had requested, and the Croat feels a new wave of uncertainty now that Daniel is at eye level, watching him expectantly, remnants of laughter tugging at his lips.

I want you to only speak Spanish with the team from now on, Ivan says after a brief pause. You need to communicate effectively, and it's not enough to get by with just Portuguese. You're in Spain now. You need to speak Spanish like everyone else. This is important. Do you understand?

Daniel's smile fades, and he looks caught out and uncertain. Ivan wonders if he had sounded too harsh.

It's difficult, he insists, gentler this time. I want to understand you, but it's too difficult right now—without Spanish, with just Portuguese. I need you to take this seriously. Can you? Can you do that?

The silence seems to stretch infinitely, before finally, " _Bien_." And Daniel flashes his same, wide, charming smile, replying in careful albeit accented Spanish. " _Sólo para ti_." Just for you.

~~

Daniel stops talking to him.

Actually, that's not true. Daniel still greets Ivan every morning, and responds easily on the pitch, whenever Ivan tells him to come forward or pull back. He still celebrates with the team when they score, and if it happens to be Ivan's goal, Daniel would hug him for a second longer, or run his fingers through the hair at the nape of Ivan's neck.

But Daniel stops talking to him the way he used to—in his broken Spanish mixed with Portuguese—that usually took Ivan more mental effort than necessary just to understand half of what the defender had wanted to say. And Ivan wonders if he should be surprised at all by this outcome, after asking Daniel not to speak Portuguese—the only language he feels comfortable using—when he is with the rest of the team.

It's not an unreasonable thing to ask, Ivan blurts out to Beto during training one day. It's been almost five months since Daniel's transfer to Sevilla. He needs to learn Spanish sometime. He needs to communicate with the team.

Beto responds with a shrug. Languages in general, it's just hard for some people, and the limited length of Daniel's attention span certainly doesn't help his cause.

Ivan sighs, his breath visible before him, and he wishes he had heeded to the warning of his weather app and dug up his winter gear this morning. It's almost December, and Sevilla is finally gaining some traction in La Liga. If they win their next matches, they can overtake Villareal for seventh place, which isn't bad at all considering how awful their season beginning had been. And Ivan supposes he should be thankful that his only worry at the moment—as captain—is Daniel Carriço's inability to speak Spanish.

~~

" _No, es irregular_. _La conjugación es diferente._ " Marko sounds rather impatient as he takes Daniel's Spanish workbook.

The team was given the day off, but the new signings still had Spanish lessons to attend to, and Ivan still had strategic planning with the coach and assistants. It's late afternoon, and Ivan is halfway to the parking lot before he spots Marko and Daniel leaning against the German's black Lamborghini—an incredibly fine-looking car, he has to admit.

" _Yo recuerdo, tú recuerdas, él/ella recuerda…_ " Marko recites the conjugations with the exercised familiarity of a schoolboy, which Ivan remembers only too well from his first year at Seville.

" _El resto es lo mismo_." The rest is the same, Marko explains, and Ivan finds it incredibly strange how _everyone_ seems to be better at Spanish than Daniel.

He didn't mean to eavesdrop for so long, but by the time he realizes, Marko is already driving away, leaving Daniel alone in the parking lot, looking rather confusedly at Ivan.

The Croat greets with a half-smile and a tentative wave. How is everything? How are the Spanish lessons?

Daniel shakes his head as he shoves his workbook into his bag. " _No es divertido_." It's not fun, he says in simple but perfect Spanish, and Ivan unfathomably feels a gush of pride.

Spanish is hard. Believe me, I know. I had to go through the same thing in the beginning, but it will get better with time. The more you use it, the more natural it will feel. The team will help. We can all help.

Ivan tries to speak slowly and clearly and watches on, practically mesmerized by the way Daniel breaks into his usual smile. Ivan wonders how can anyone smile with such little inhibition and effort.

So what lesson are you on? The Croat continues, privately hoping that the constant movement of his mouth can offer diversion from the redness of his cheeks. Irregular verbs? Direct, indirect pronouns? Questions?

" _Pregunta_ ," Daniel says—question—and Ivan remembers it being somewhat tricky with the optional subject-verb inversions, but it's not hard to avoid the usage in real life. He wouldn't be surprised either, if Portuguese shares this commonality with Spanish.

" _¿Te gustaría ir a cenar?_ " Daniel asks, and Ivan thinks it's good—it's perfect—grammatically and pronunciation-wise.

Daniel laughs and shakes his head, saying, no, Ivan. " _Conmigo_." With me. " _Cenar comigo_." Have dinner with me. " _Me gustaría eso_." I would like that.

And Ivan looks at him for what feels like an eternity, before okay. Okay.

~~

Ivan doesn't remember his abandoned car until Daniel parks along a quiet street in a busy, dining district. But Daniel tells him not to worry and insists on dropping him off after dinner, so Ivan can hardly complain. They go to a restaurant along the river—Portuguese-owned and Daniel's favorite—and by then, it's already dark enough for the streetlights to shine, reflecting fantastically against the damp pavement and water surface.

They find seats in a dim corner of the restaurant, with the textured glass dividers just tall enough to hide their faces. Daniel orders wine right away and recommends the _leitão assado_ —roast pork. Portugal is known for their pork dishes, and Ivan supposes he is feeling adventurous tonight.

The wine comes with the appetizers, and Daniel appears almost overly excited to try it. " _Vino de Madeira._ " Madeira wine. " _Es Bueno_." It's good.

Ivan takes a small sip. It's not too sweet and not too bitter, and he can catch a hint of almond as the dark liquid washes over his tongue.

" _¿Te gusta?_ " Do you like it? Daniel is leaning forward in his seat, smiling and watching Ivan in such a way that he wouldn't have said no, even if he hated the wine.

Ivan takes a few more gulps before he feels relaxed enough to converse.

~~

After only the second glass, Ivan begins to feel warmth across his face and neck. And he doesn't even realize how dizzy he is until he gets up to use the bathroom halfway through the meal. Daniel must be feeling it too, his Spanish slowly deteriorating into Portuguese as their conversation takes its natural coarse—from their teammates, to La Liga, to Croatia and Portugal, and finally to the World Cup.

You didn't put anything in my drink, did you? Ivan accuses in jest, because it's actually embarrassing how tipsy he is, even if holding liquor isn't one of his fortes.

Daniel laughs, and reads the alcohol content on the bottle. " _¿Muy fuerte_?" Too strong? " _Perdona_."

Well, he sure as hell doesn't seem sorry as he pours more wine into Ivan's glass, much to the Croat's objection.

" _Termines. Eu tenho que dirigir_." Daniel is speaking in full Portuguese, and he catches himself just in time for Ivan to wave a dismissive hand.

They're not with the team, so Ivan supposes it's okay as long as he can guess the meaning—finish the wine because Daniel has to drive. Seems like a fair request.

Teach me something in Portuguese, Ivan asks as he downs his third glass. He's not drunk yet, but he's feeling way too happy, and he will certainly regret how stupid he sounds once the alcohol flushes out of his system.

" _Vamos foder a noite toda_ ," Daniel responds with an impish grin, and Ivan repeats with immense concentration, but the syllables still stumble against his teeth and tongue.

What does that mean? He asks, and Daniel says let's be friends.

Ivan takes a moment to consider before declaring, no it doesn't. Daniel throws his head back and laughs, but doesn't object.

~~

Wasting good wine is a crime in any culture, so Ivan ends up drinking most of the bottle. It's pitch black by the time they step outside, but the sparsely spread streetlights offer enough guidance for retracing their steps. Daniel is humming a tune Ivan doesn't recognize, and they don't really talk much during the short walk to the car. Sometimes their shoulders would brush as Ivan finds the uneven, cobblestone pavement increasingly tricky beneath his feet, and Daniel would feel the need to steady him by the elbow, despite the Croat shrugging away and insisting that he's fine— _perfectly_ fine.

Daniel opens the passenger-side door for Ivan, before sliding into the driver's seat himself. Ivan then snatches the keys from him just as the defender is about to start the engine.

" _Ni hablar_." No way. Daniel looks at him—eyes wide and expression serious—and Ivan finds it inexplicably funny. " _Yo voy a conducir_." I'm driving.

Daniel makes a grab for the keys, but Ivan lifts it over his head and out of reach. We should wait a little longer, he suggests, because Daniel had a bit to drink too, and they should make sure that he is completely sober before entering the road. The last thing Ivan wants is to kill, be killed, or end up in tomorrow's newspapers.

" _Estoy bien_." I'm fine. Daniel appears amused, and Ivan feels a twinge of frustration that the Portuguese isn't taking him seriously. Just because he's a little dazed and slurring his words doesn't mean his concerns are any less legitimate.

Wait, he all but orders, and Daniel whines as he reaches for the keys again. " _Anda ya_." Come on.

The Croat shifts to distance himself, pressing his back against the inside of the car door. He tries to nudge Daniel away with his right foot, but the defender anticipates well, slipping a hand beneath Ivan's knee and lifting his leg over the dashboard, which effectively traps him in an uncomfortable slumping position, the door handle digging against his spine.

Daniel leans forward again, and Ivan uses his free hand to push him away, gripping firmly at his jaw. He tells the defender to get off, but his requests ends with a hiccup and a giggle, and _oh God_ , he would be so mortified if it weren't for the wine and Daniel's smile, making everything seem a but fuzzy but still alright.

A complaint forms at the tip of Ivan's tongue when Daniel takes his wrist and doesn't let go, but his mind completely goes blank when Daniel kisses his hand, right where his palm and wrist connect.

The defender loosens his grip, and Ivan's hand falls tamely to his side. Neither of them is smiling anymore, and the Croat watches on—breath uneven and heart pounding—as Daniel reaches for the zipper of his jacket and tugs. He separates the zipper teeth one by one, at an excruciatingly slow rate, all the while keeping a keen eye on Ivan, attentive for any hint of objection. And of course, there was none.

With the jacket undone, Daniel slips his hand inside, along Ivan's ribs, over his stomach, and across his chest—the touches experimental yet measured, solid and warm with only the thin fabric of the Croat's T-shirt separating them. Ivan wills himself to stay still, afraid that any movement would disrupt this delicate equilibrium. Daniel then pinches a nipple through the fabric, and Ivan practically moans.

The Portuguese is chewing uncertainly at his lower lip, stretching his neck to look over the windshield into the darkness beyond. And when he presumably finds no unwanted spectators, he returns his full attention to the Croat beneath him.

Daniel kisses him on the temple, cheek, along his jawline, before reaching the sensitive skin just below his ear. Daniel's stubble feels prickly against his neck, and Ivan bites back a moan as the Portuguese licks and nips at the shell of his ear. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Croat knows this is a bad idea, but he just can't bring himself to focus, or even care about the consequences right now.

Ivan feels a hand sliding up his side, still not daring to go beneath his T-shirt. He whines, using his leg over the dashboard as leverage, as he pushes himself against the knee parting his thighs. He threads his fingers through Daniel's hair—the car keys jingling as he drops them against the seat—and shifts so that their lips are aligned. He can taste almonds and grapes and sugarcane in Daniel's breath.

He grinds against Daniel—once, twice—before the Portuguese grips his hips with both hands and forces him still, much to the Croat's frustration.

Ivan makes a pitiful sound and asks what's the matter, but Daniel doesn't respond, pulling away before the Croat can finish the question. Ivan hesitates, too sober now—too rational and afraid—to continue in the pursuit after such respite, so instead, he pushes himself up, straightens so that he is sitting properly in the passenger seat again.

Daniel turns the key and starts the engine, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. He looks suddenly exhausted.

" _Perdão_ ," he says in Portuguese, before catching himself and amending. " _Perdona_."

Sorry, sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this has been quite a challenge, and I'm very happy to be done. Thank you so much, my readers and also the OP who suggested such a glorious prompt. I was pleasantly surprised by all the feedback I got! So glad I'm not the only one shipping them now, ahahaa;;
> 
> Please fix my Spanish, if you are so kind. Google translate can only produce so much..
> 
> Feedback would be lovely, and I hope everyone enjoys the part 2 ;-)

The next morning, Ivan remembers.

He remembers the Portuguese dinner with Madeira wine and Daniel's careful Spanish behind his easy smile. He remembers the initial nervousness that tied his tongue—how it had slackened with each refill of the glass—and Daniel's sharp laughter and playful jibes, because who gets drunk from a few sips of wine anyway? But Ivan wasn't drunk—at least, not morbidly so—just enough to speak and feel without the looming weight of responsibility. And he remembers _painfully_ clearly in that brief moment of ill judgement, how much he had wanted Daniel—to kiss him, to run his fingers through his hair, to feel the friction between their bodies. But now, alone in his bed and clad in the clothes from the night before, his alarm clock blaring purposefully by his head—a solemn reminder of practice to attend, a team to captain—Ivan finally realizes the senselessness of his actions.

What a stupid thing to fall into.

~~

They don't talk about it, or about anything anymore, but no one seems to notice because they're professionals and adults who know better than to bring personal issues onto the pitch. Sevilla carries on resiliently, maintaining a top five position in La Liga and progressing to the next stage of the Europa League. Getting eliminated in the Copa del Rey had been a disappointment and a surprise, but that's how football goes sometimes—victory and defeat in ebb and flow.

During practice, Daniel still laughs and speaks in the same effortless mix of Spanish and Portuguese, the natural music of his voice never fading, while Ivan busies himself with motivating the team, fighting for the team, doing everything he possibly can, so that he rarely catches the fleeting glances Daniel would sometimes steal from across the locker room or down the pitch. They're both so good at it—pretending nothing is wrong, for the sake of their careers, their team—but Ivan knows better than to let tension fester beneath the calm facade. If only he knew what to do.

Perhaps, he should have approached the Portuguese since the beginning—being the more senior player, the captain—but at this point, it's more of a whimsical afterthought than legitimate self-advice. Two months have passed, and they're still walking on eggshells, and Ivan tiredly wonders what it will take to end this unresolved state of affairs.

~~

A head injury did the trick, and Ivan supposes he's simply unlucky to be on the receiving end. It was the 83rd minute during the home match against Real Sociedad, and the fans cheered adamantly as Sevilla defended their one goal lead. Sociedad was relentless with their pressure—corner after corner, chance after chance—and Ivan only had eyes for the ball as it curled in to the far post, before he felt a shocking blow to the back of his head that made him see white.

He barely had time to brace himself as the pitch came crashing towards him. And all the sounds within the stadium—the referee's whistle, the jeering fans, the complaints from players on both sides—meshed and engulfed his already pounding head.

Through a forest of white and blue kits, Ivan saw a flash of yellow. More protests erupted, and— _oh God_ —he wished everyone would just shut up because he was hurting so badly, and all this noise, this chaos, was making the damage infinitely worse.

Ivan squeezed his eyes shut and could barely register as tentative fingers brushed away the sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. Daniel didn't say anything, watching instead with worried eyes as the physios took his place by Ivan's side. The Sevilla captain was subbed off as a precaution, and the home side managed to wear down the remaining minutes before collecting the precious three points. Ivan then spent the next few hours in the physio room, as the medical staff tilted his head experimentally from side to side and flashed bright lights into his constricting pupils.

~~

" _¿Cómo estás?_ " How are you?

It's practically midnight by the time Ivan was deemed well enough to leave, and the Croat finds it simply unconceivable that Daniel had been waiting for him the entire time, in this otherwise empty parking lot.

" _¿Cómo te sientes?_ " How are you feeling? The Portuguese tries again, straightening self-consciously upon receiving no response. " _Tu cabeza_." Your head.

I'm fine, Ivan manages with only a slight stutter, before explaining that the medical staff only wanted to be thorough, considering the effects of a head injury can take time to surface. Ivan was told to monitor himself for worsening signs in the next two days, but as of yet, the damage doesn't appear serious or lasting.

Thank you for asking, he ends somewhat awkwardly, and Daniel responds with a sympathetic nod and a tight-lipped smile. They haven't spoken in so long, and Ivan had almost forgotten how difficult—yet, _enthralling_ —it all had been.

" _¿Puedes conducir?_ " Can you drive? Daniel asks.

Yes, Ivan thinks, although he probably shouldn't.

" _Puedo llevarte a tu casa_." I can drive you home. " _Si quieres_." If you want. The Portuguese then hesitates, before adding. " _Y eso es todo_." And that's all. " _Te lo promento_." I promise.

~~

They take Ivan's car this time, leaving Daniel's behind, and the Portuguese insists that it's no big deal, that he wouldn't mind a short walk on a clear night like this. And Ivan takes the opportunity to point out that it's the middle of February—the harshest month of winter—and they, in fact, live nowhere near each other for the walk to constitute as short. Daniel simply laughs and assures it's truly no trouble at all, that a bit of wind and fallen snow is nothing he can't handle.

They don't speak again until they reached the freeway, and it's Daniel who garners the courage first. " _Yo estaba nervioso de hablar contigo_." I was nervous to talk to you.

Why? Ivan asks. You weren't the one who knocked me out, or were you? He half-jokes. After all, he never even saw the blow coming, let alone whom the culprit was.

" _No, Iván_." Daniel laughs, appreciating the Croat's attempt at perhaps, easing the tension. He then pauses before continuing—steadily, demurely—his words obviously practiced. " _Lo siento por besarte_." I'm sorry for kissing you. " _Lo siento por haber huido_." I'm sorry for running away.

Ivan hums in acknowledgement, staring resolutely at the swirls of passing light over the dashboard. He feels a dull pain in his head and thinks they probably could have chosen a better time for this inevitable confrontation, because it's completely unfair how every time something about this—about _them_ —comes up, Ivan is either drunk or recovering from a head injury. But it's also unfair that Daniel is the only one apologizing, because he had kissed Daniel too, and he had also been avoiding the other.

" _Me gustas mucho_." I like you a lot. " _Por un buen rato_." For a while now.

And that's enough for Ivan to finally turn to the Portuguese, even if Daniel isn't looking back, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Ivan swallows thickly and tries to explain that he's the captain, and they're part of a team, and this is the career they've both worked so hard for, and it's not something they can simply jeopardize just because—of _feelings_.

" _Todo o nada_." All or nothing, Daniel says and smiles in a way that's almost apologetic. " _Tal vez estoy siendo egoísta o poco razonable, pero_ …" Maybe I'm being selfish or unreasonable, but… " _No quiero fingir más_." I don't want to pretend anymore.

Don't speak so hastily, Ivan says, but Daniel shakes his head. What do you even mean by that? How do you expect me to respond?

" _¿Te gusto o no?_ " Do you like me or not? The Portuguese shrugs—simple as that.

And Ivan can only stare—wordless and paralyzed—because the answer is yes, even though it should be no, and the question should never have been asked, and this whole problem shouldn't even exist.

" _Yo me puedo ir_." I can leave, Daniel finally says.

Ivan looks at the Portuguese confused and caught out, his mind frustratingly void of the all words he needs.

" _Si quieres_." If you want. " _Si no funciona_." If it doesn't work.

Daniel doesn't belong to Sevilla like Ivan does, and he never quite found his place in Reading or Limassol. He certainly doesn't belong to Sporting anymore, so it's easy—it has always been easy for him—just to leave at the end of a season, and he seems adamant in believing that.

And Ivan wants to grab the Portuguese and shake him by the shoulders, because this is not what Ivan said and definitely not what he meant. It's also completely untrue.

Sure, Daniel is a player on loan, but during these past months, he has earned his position on the pitch, the trust of the coach, and the support of his teammates and fans. His Spanish is just fine now, and his agent and the board have been discussing a possible permanent move. That's what Daniel wants, and he had already told the rest of the team of his confidence in staying, and it's not because of Ivan—or hardly because of him—so Daniel's decision to leave certainly shouldn't be because of him either.

And the Croat supposes he's the wretched kind who thinks too much and speaks too little, because by the time he snaps out of his own turmoil, Daniel has already pulled into the driveway of his house.

" _Todo o nada_ ," Daniel repeats. " _Para mí también_." For me too.

Just think about it, he asks as he places a chaste kiss to Ivan's cheek, bidding farewell. 

" _Buenas noches, Iván_."

~~

Ivan spends the next week thinking and overthinking, until the bruise on the back of his head is nothing more than a tender patch of skin. His decision to approach Daniel is rather spontaneous—one night in midweek, between practice and match day, and he had just finished dinner, so why not? And he supposes it's fitting considering their history of not quite planning, and not quite understanding, and sort of just getting by with whatever comes to mind.

Daniel looks surprised when he opens the door, because it's not like Ivan called ahead to let him know he was coming. Daniel's wearing a gray hoodie and black sweatpants with no shoes or socks, his hair freshly towel-dried and sticking up in all angles, and Ivan thinks he looks ridiculous, the way his eyes are wide and unblinking, as if he doesn't quite believe whom he's seeing at the door.

I hope you're free tonight, Ivan shrugs, hands in pocket.

" _Si_ ," Daniel says, before repeating more affirmatively. He opens the door wider to let the Croat in.

Ivan has never seen or thought about the inside of Daniel's apartment, and he supposes what he finds is not at all surprising: a temporary residence for a single man—minimalist, yet disheveled, with designated piles of clothing, football gear, and other personal belongings in an impersonal space. The Portuguese maneuvers past Ivan to sheepishly gather the obvious clutters, before tossing everything in a nearby closet and out of sight.

" _Perdona_ ," Daniel excuses himself, before asking Ivan if he would like something to drink. Wine? Whiskey?

Water is fine, Ivan says forthrightly and catches a fleeting smile on Daniel's lips, as the Portuguese disappears into the kitchen.

They spend the next ten minutes in the living room, sipping on water. Daniel leaves the middle seat of the sofa empty and remains respectfully silent, as Ivan inwardly reprimanded himself for arriving so ill prepared. He knows what he wants to say, just not how or where to even begin.

I don't want you to leave, Ivan finally declares to the ceiling after taking a long inhale of breath.

" _¿No?_ " Daniel runs a hand through his still damp hair, and he sounds hesitant— _so_ hesitant.

At least, it shouldn't be up to me, the Croat says as he sets his glass down, shifting to bridge the distance between them.

And it's laughable how awkward he feels, as though the microphones are pointing and the cameras are flashing, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, and he should just never, _ever_ be allowed to improvise unless it involves a pitch and a ball.

But Ivan pushes away his demons and closes his eyes, leaning in and kissing Daniel, slowly at first. He can tell that Daniel had just brushed his teeth and his lips are slightly chapped.

The Portuguese mumbles something that sounded like, " _¿Estás seguro?_ " Are you sure?

And Ivan wants to say, yes, I'm sure. I've never been so sure. I'm the one kissing _you_. And I don't have a head injury, and I'm certainly not drunk.

But instead, he deepens the kiss, until their bodies are aligned and their teeth are touching, and Daniel gets the idea soon enough, threading a hand through Ivan's hair and pressing forward, until the Croat is leaning back with his head against the arm of the couch.

Daniel is gripping at his hip, his thumb smoothing over the skin right above his waistband. Ivan takes the initiative and pulls his shirt over his head, and the Portuguese is kissing at his neck and collarbone before he can even properly discard the piece of clothing.

Daniel maps every inch of Ivan's chest with lips, tongue, and steady fingertips, and by the time he licks his way to the dip of Ivan's stomach, the Croat is impossibly hard within the tight confinements of his jeans.

Ivan gasps, hips stuttering, as Daniel palms him through his clothes, and it doesn't take long before the Portuguese is undoing his belt and zipper, pulling his jeans and boxers down to his thighs.

And then, everything suddenly— _frustratingly_ —halts, with Ivan's cock twitching against his belly begging to be touched, and Daniel just wordlessly _staring_. Ivan feels himself blush, the morbidly embarrassing kind where it spreads from his face all the way to his chest.

" _Hajde_ ," he says, and it's in Croatian before he can even catch himself, but Daniel gets it— _come on_ —and leans forward to press another kiss to Ivan's lips.

The Portuguese pulls his own shirt over his head, before tugging down the hem of his sweatpants. He takes both of them into his hand and sets a steady rhythm, drawing out a moan of almost relief from the Croat.

It only takes a minute or two before Ivan comes, body taut and face buried in the crook of Daniel's neck. And the Portuguese kisses his hair as he follows, collapsing on top of the Croat once they're both slack and sticky in their post-orgasm high.

The couch is too small for two grown man, but they manage to make do, lying on their sides, limbs entangled and kissing lazily. Ivan feels the curve of Daniel's lips against his and asks, why are you laughing?

Daniel brushes a few stray strands from Ivan's eyes. " _Esperé mucho tiempo_." I waited a long time. " _Para esto_." For this.

" _Yo también_ ," Ivan says and smiles back. Me too.

~~

In the months that follow, Ivan's performance on the pitch surprises even himself. The ball drops for him, the passes are coming, and he skips over defenders as if they weren't even there. They beat Real Madrid 2-1 at home, and Ivan makes a vital assist after a superb heel-flick that leaves his defender for dead. Bacca latches onto his through ball with ease and slots it past the helpless goalie. They manage to wrench three points away from the royal whites, and it almost feels like a cup victory on its own.

But it's not just football that leaves Ivan elated. It's also leaving the pitch with Daniel—sharing dinner, falling asleep, and waking up to lingering kisses—that lifts and motivates him, and makes him smile more than he should, so that their teammates are growing suspicious.

It's new, and strange, and confusing, and Ivan can't quite find the words to describe it, but he's willing to believe that this is just what happens to people when they are a little bit in love.

~~

The road to the Europa final hadn't been easy. Sevilla had finished ninth in La Liga last season and only qualified for the Europa League after Malaga and Rayo Vallecano were barred for financial reasons. And from then on, it had been a dramatic sequence of second-leg comebacks, goals in stoppage time, and penalty shoot-outs that had gotten them to Turin. The final against Benfica is just as gruesome—intense, but goalless—stretching interminably to extra time as legs wear out and lungs burst aflame.

They go to penalties, and the captain always takes the last, but Ivan doesn't even need to step up because his teammates took theirs excellently, and Beto manages to save two. Sevilla was never favorites—coming into the competition, coming into the final—but now, they're lifting the trophy to red and white confetti, their fans cheering and chanting their anthem.

After the ceremony and back on the pitch, Ivan wears his medal around his neck and ties the Croatian flag to his waist. He's holding the trophy for a photo, while telling the reporter, as politely as he can, that he doesn't want to talk about next season, or transfer rumors, or even the World Cup, because they had just won the Europa League, and he wants to enjoy it, enjoy today, enjoy now.

He feels a hand at his lower back and turns to see a flash of red and green—the colors of Portugal around Daniel's shoulders—as the defender leans in and kisses him on the lips. And Ivan barely registers that they're in the middle of the pitch with hundreds of cameras pointing, because the next minute, he's crowded by his teammates, singing and cheering of victory and good times to come.

~~

The video of their kiss goes viral and becomes the headline of more magazines and newspapers than Ivan knew existed. It even comes up during a press conference, and Ivan makes a valiant effort to curb his laughter.

He was going to kiss me on the cheek, but I turned around. What more do you want?

The reporter laughs with him, and moves on to questions for the coach, for other teammates, and Ivan has to fight the urge to shift in his seat, as he thinks of all the other places he'd rather be.

~~

After dinner that night, Ivan spreads himself on the couch, his legs resting on Daniel's as the Portuguese flips the channels between trashy _telenovelas_ and old football matches. Ivan has his laptop open, scrolling through the photos of their victory and celebration. Two days have passed since, but it still hasn't gotten old yet.

You have to make it stop, Ivan laughs as he comes across another one of those moving images, where the brief seconds of their kiss loop infinitely.

Stop looking at them, the Portuguese shrugs.

Ivan says he can't. It's actually quite mesmerizing—the repetitiveness, the slow motion camera effects—like one of those therapeutic videos of mini-waterfalls or fish swimming, that takes away all sorts of anxiety. Daniel makes a frustrated sound, reaching over to shut the laptop.

Wait, Ivan protests. And the Portuguese complies, wrapping his arms around the Croat's waist and sighing against his neck instead.

Ivan takes the brief opportunity to open another tab, an article from _Estadio Deportivo_ that almost doesn't focus on either of them, or the kiss.

Is this what we look like to other people? He asks. So stupidly in love?

Daniel kisses Ivan in a way that's meant to get his attention, closing the laptop successfully this time, before letting it slide onto the carpeted floor. He slips a hand beneath Ivan's shirt—feeling the flat of his abdomen, the angles of his hips, the dip of his navel—with so much purpose and care behind this one smooth gesture.

" _¿A quién le importa?_ " He says. Who cares? " _Es verdad_." It's true.

**Author's Note:**

> And I figured I'd add some visual examples of this ship sailing itself (you know, aside from the [prompt gifs](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/10208.html?thread=5586144#t5586144)) such as [woah there, slipping hand](http://www.tycsports.com/adjuntos/104/imagenes/001/923/0001923694.jpg) and [i don't care if there's a goalie between us, i will still touch you](https://24.media.tumblr.com/1173bae25ce3ea43d34bd64c18f1ed0e/tumblr_n5magu8Z4R1qa84tqo2_r1_400.jpg)
> 
> Anyhoo, thank you so much for reading, and feedback would be lovely! <3


End file.
